The board turned black. True black. The black of deep water, of obsidian, of a sleep without dreams. She leaned her forehead against its cool, empty surface and breathed.
There was nothing written. Not yet. No plan. No promise to run five miles or learn French or become a new person by Monday. Just the void. The terrifying, generous, open void. clean slate by mugwump
Her hand hovered. Then, lightly, not even a word, just a shape—a single, small circle. A sun. A zero. A beginning. The board turned black